


The Dancer

by Josselin



Series: The Second Job [2]
Category: Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Escort Service, Heist, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: Neal Caffrey first met Rusty Ryan when he was pretending to be twenty-three and using an escort agency in a scheme to steal a Rodin from a private residence.





	The Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to the earlier fic in the series that I wrote with phoenixflight!

Neal Caffrey first met Rusty Ryan when he was pretending to be twenty-three and using an escort agency in a scheme to steal a Rodin from a private residence. 

He found it more comfortable to tell himself he was just pretending to be an escort to get access to potential targets than acknowledging that over the last few months more of his income had originated from escorting than any other kind of work. And it wasn’t that he minded it, exactly. The agency vetted the clients and he was charming and most of them were kind to him. Maurice liked to take him to the opera. Annalise had a passion for cuisine that had taken Neal to three Michelin starred restaurants.

But still, he told himself, it was about the plan. The plan was to get close to The Dancer, try to confirm that it was an original and not one of the thousands of Rodin forgeries floating around, then spend enough time close to it that he could do his own bronze cast, and sell it. The forgery or the original, if a swap seemed practical. Neal wasn’t picky.

Mozzie thought it was a bad plan, but Mozzie was still playing card tricks in the park, and Neal was trying to lift himself a step higher.

Neal was going by Steve Tabernacle when he met Rusty, and Rusty was going by Robert Lawston, but he let Annalise call him Robby. Annalise had requested a threesome. Neal was willing to see both male and female clients; Rusty apparently did the same, and the agency sent the two of them off to the suite Annalise had reserved at The Peninsula. Neal met Rusty in the lobby of the hotel, where Rusty’s shirt was the same color as the flowers in giant bowls next to the staircase. Neal took Rusty in, looking him over from head to toe, and felt Rusty doing the same to him. Rusty’s hair had been longer then, but he’d had the same gleam in his eyes as he’d taken Neal in, and he’d touched his mouth as he nodded before introducing himself. 

“Robert Lawston.”

“Steve Tabernacle,” Neal said, in return. Both of them nodded their understanding that those names were completely fake, and Rusty handed Neal the hotel room key. 

They were professionals. They’d heard Francine’s lectures when they joined the agency, all of her rules about escorts. But they each had a natural gift, as well. Neal was good at becoming what someone else wanted him to be. Rusty was good at making other people want what he felt like being. 

They left together, Rusty holding the open bottle of ‘84 Duetz Rose that Annalise had waved at him to take. In the elevator, he offered it to Neal, who accepted. Neal didn’t usually drink expensive champagne at the end of a date. He could feel Rusty’s eyes on his throat as he drank. Neal couldn’t shake the impression that Rusty had seen through him completely, that at any moment he was going to threaten Neal with the cops or the feds or outing his other ambitions to Francine. 

Rusty just held out his hand for the champagne. Neal handed it back, and it was his turn to watch Rusty drink, and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“We could do this again,” Rusty said, gesturing at the elevator door in a way that encompassed the entire evening.

Neal nodded. “I don’t usually do threesomes.” He hadn’t wanted other people along when he was at Maurice’s, checking out the Rodin, so when he’d started at the agency he’d acted shy and said he preferred to be alone. But it was nice, to be with someone else, to feel like he had a partner, to catch Rusty’s eye and have a shared understanding as they moved across the bed--

Rusty nodded. “Me neither.”

The elevator dinged as it opened into the lobby, and Rusty gave Neal a last toast with the bottle before he disappeared into the night.

Neal Caffrey first met Danny Ocean shortly afterward, when he was still pretending to be twenty-three and using an escort agency in a scheme to steal a Rodin from a private residence. 

Francine’s assistant called him on a Tuesday afternoon. “I need you to take an appointment this evening.”

Neal was outside Maurice’s place, watching the security shift change on the building. “I’m not scheduled.”

“It’s a last minute fill in.” Neal frowned. That wasn’t typical. “Robby had something come up, it’s one of his regulars, we can’t just cancel on him.” Not canceling on a regular was Francine’s rule number six. 

Across the street, the day security shift guys were having a smoke before heading out. “If he’s expecting Robby--”

“You’re exactly his type,” Francine’s assistant said. “I just need you to head over to the Brooklyn Bridge Marriott.”

“I’m not near--”

But Francine’s assistant had hung up, and “Don’t be late” was one of the cardinal sins of escorting that Francine was always harping about and Francine’s rule two, so Neal looked himself over, decided his outfit was acceptable even though it wasn’t necessarily the look he would have chosen--he didn’t know what the client even had in mind--and flagged down a cab.

The instructions said to meet in the bar. The bar had white furniture and seemed to be decorated with as many geometric shapes as was possible. Neal scanned the space. 

There was a man sitting by himself in a booth by the window, with a glass of scotch in front of him. He was well dressed and had a very nice watch, and Neal thought he was most likely the appointment, so he took a step closer, making his expression inviting.

The man saw him, and looked him over, interested. Neal slid into the other side of the booth. “Brad Cox?”

The man nodded. “You’re not Robby.”

“Steve,” Neal said, offering his hand. Danny’s handshake was warm and firm. “Robby can’t make it this evening.”

Danny raised a slow eyebrow. “Can’t make it?”

“I’m sure we can have a great time,” Neal said, holding a determined smile. 

“Oh, I think we can,” said Danny.

The waitress came by, and Danny lifted his scotch to his lips and waved his other hand at Neal to order.

“Do you live in Brooklyn Heights, Mr. Cox?” Neal said.

“Brad, please,” said Danny.

Neal let the name linger on his tongue. “Brad. Do you live in Brooklyn Heights?”

“No. Just visiting.”

“And what brings you here?” said Neal.

“Would you believe--” Danny sipped his scotch again “--that I’m arranging to steal something very expensive?”

Neal found that he would, in fact, believe that. He leaned in. “And what’s that?”

Danny smiled. “Guess.”

The waitress brought Neal’s drink. He ignored it. “I hope,” Neal said, “that it’s not any of the art in this bar.” He could see Danny’s smile starting, so Neal’s hope that a man who began by confessing to a planned theft was a man who’d be impressed by Neal’s automatic appraisal of the value of everything in the room had paid off. “Because the most expensive thing in here is the bottle of Nolet’s gin above the bar--”

Danny shook his head, leaning in across the table to match Neal’s posture. “No--the most expensive thing in here is you.”

They didn’t stay in the bar very long. 

Upstairs in Danny’s room, Neal excused himself to the bathroom and wondered why a guy like Brad Cox was hiring expensive escorts. Usually attractive and wealthy men had no trouble meeting people, unless there was something in particular they were into, or they got off on paying for it. Neal wished he had been able to talk to Rusty before he had taken this job. 

He washed his hands and came out of the bathroom. Danny was across the suite pouring wine into a glass. He turned, took in Neal, and said, “Neal.”

It was a command, not a question. Neal looked over obediently, waiting. 

Danny didn’t seem about to say any more, except after a moment understanding dawned in his eyes. “Oh. Neal.”

Neal understood at the same moment. Kneel, not Neal, except his reaction had been all wrong. He opened his mouth to apologize. 

Danny was ahead of him. “On your knees, Steve.”

Neal went to his knees. The carpet was thick and soft. “It’s Neal,” he admitted. 

Danny crossed the room and rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal rolled his head against Danny’s wrist, and Danny wrapped it comfortably around the back of his neck. 

“I like you on your knees, Neal,” Danny said. 

Neal looked up at him through his eyelashes and pouted a little bit to improve the view.

“It’s Danny,” he said. It took Neal a moment to understand the name as an offering. 

When people gave their name, in Neal’s experience, they usually liked hearing it. “Danny,” he said, making his tone a bit breathy. “Do you want me to suck your cock?”

Danny’s hand tightened on his neck slightly, and he hissed. “Yes.”

Neal didn’t have any sense of what was likely going through Danny’s head at the time, when he had only known him since the bar, and only known of him as Robby’s standing appointment. He could guess at more of it later, once he knew Danny and Rusty and he knew “Danny and Rusty” and he’d heard Rusty tell Danny, “Your problem,” he’d paused for effect, “is that you’re possessive--and unfaithful,” and Danny had taken the comment with a small wince and no rebuttal. 

It was typical, for Neal, to spend an appointment on his knees, using skills he honed carefully at giving head, and pausing artistically every so often to glance upwards with an awareness that most of his clients liked to watch what was happening.

What was atypical was what happened after the blowjob. When Danny pointed a finger at the bed and Neal walked over there rather than smiling and walking out and collecting his money later from the agency. Neal found himself undressed slowly, and when Danny pressed his wrists together with one hand while Danny slowly jerked him off, he shuddered at the ideas Danny whispered in his ear and came with a shudder in Danny’s hand. 

Then when Danny produced a pair of handcuffs from somewhere, Neal balked, slightly, and Danny said, “I bet you could slip them if you wanted, right?” and Neal was pleased enough by the recognition and the compliment that he didn’t object.

It was atypical to find himself with his hands cuffed behind him and naked and bent over the bed, staring at the stack of white pillows. He should get the pillows under him, he thought, not moving. The bed was high, but not high enough that the position wasn’t a stretch on his hamstrings, and--his thoughts derailed at the feeling of Danny’s cock working into him, slow and shallow at first.

Danny made an appreciative noise, and Neal shivered. He should be doing something, he thought, he should--he twisted his wrists, behind him, trying to get an angle on the cuffs.

Danny could see, of course. “Clever boy,” he said, approving, and Neal felt himself flush. He didn’t have a pick up his sleeve--well, he had, back when he’d had sleeves on--and the angle was wrong to manipulate it--

Danny pushed in deeper. Neal’s eyes fluttered shut. “Oh,” he said.

“Do you like that?” Danny said, as though he was actually interested in how the man he was paying for sex liked it.

When someone else was paying, there was only one answer. “Yes,” Neal moaned. He was going to have to dislocate his thumb to slip the cuffs, which he didn’t generally care for, but there weren’t other options available to him, and--

Danny bent forward to brace his arms on the bed on either side of Neal. Neal’s hands were trapped between his back and Danny’s stomach, and it made it harder for him to move his wrists--he felt caged in--

“You’re so good,” Danny said, using the new angle to fuck Neal thoroughly, and Neal felt warmed and relieved by the compliment just as he managed to get one of his hands free.

Once one was free, it was much easier to slip the cuff off the other, and he pulled his arms out from between their bodies behind him to brace himself on the bed, so he wasn’t supported only by his face and shoulders. Pushing up changed the angle, and Neal didn’t know if it was the angle or his success with the cuffs, but Danny said, “God, you’re perfect, I’m screwed--” and a bunch of other nonsense as he thrust unevenly to his finish. 

Danny flopped on the bed, afterward, catching his breath, and Neal picked up the cuffs from the floor and then reclined next to him, working the metal catch with his fingers rhythmically.

“How old are you?” Danny said, after a moment. 

Neal met and held his eyes, guileless. “Twenty-three,” he said. That was how old Steve Tabernacle was. Steve had been born in 1973. On December 23, in fact. Steve’s mother--who was named Karen--had considered him an early Christmas present. Steve had been bitter his whole childhood about getting combined Christmas and birthday presents--

“The prolonged eye contact is a tell,” Danny said mildly, and Neal looked down at the bed.

Danny didn’t say anything further.

Neal got out of the bed, slowly, and retrieved his clothes. His underwear was on the floor, and his pants were draped over the chair, belt still through the loops, and his undershirt was laying on the desk.

When he was dressed, Danny handed him a slip of hotel stationary with a phone number written on it. 

“I’m not allowed to take private appointments outside the agency,” Neal said. That had been Francine’s rule number three.

Danny tucked the paper into Neal’s pocket and patted it. He was still naked and seemingly unselfconscious about it. “Memorize that, then burn it.”

And Neal had left.

He wasn’t asked to fill in for Robby again, but he didn’t leave that to chance. The next week, he moved ahead with his heist. 

It was stupidly easy. He showed up when he knew Maurice would be out wearing a suit and glasses, the forged Rodin, and a fake work order he showed to the housekeeper he’d been careful not to meet during his night appointments. Neal explained that he was supposed to take it to the curator for restoration and cleaning, and that they had brought a reproduction for display while it was gone for a week. Lorna signed the paperwork disinterestedly, and Neal went into Maurice’s study to pack up the statue. He didn’t even have to be that careful about fingerprints--he was, of course, because he wasn’t stupid--but Steve Tabernacle had already been in the study multiple times at Maurice’s direct invitation.

As he was tucking it into the styrofoam packed case, he heard a noise from the vent.

He looked over at the grate curiously, and as he watched, it opened, and then a man dropped lightly from the ceiling down to the carpeted study floor. 

Neal found himself distractedly wondering where the vents led to. What should he do? Yell for the housekeeper? Grab the phone and call the police? Try to talk to--a second man emerged from the same vent in the ceiling, and Neal’s calculus changed as he was outnumbered. 

“Steve?” 

The first man pulled the black mask he was wearing over his mouth down and Neal looked at him. “Robby?”

There was a moment.

“The Rodin’s mine,” Neal said. 

Rusty shrugged. “We want the bonds in the safe.”

“Okay,” Neal agreed. 

“You might want to cut town after this,” Rusty said, as the second man used some kind of machine on the safe. It popped open after a minute, and then the second man handed Rusty a folder from the safe, and Rusty tucked it into a protective sleeve.

Neal nodded. He hadn’t been planning to stay in New York. It was going to be hot for him, with the Rodin, and he was tired of escorting, and Mozzie wanted to go to Chicago, and if he left town then he didn’t have to worry that Danny would try to book him through the agency again--

Rusty nodded toward the second man. “This is my partner.”

The second man lowered his mask as well, and offered a gloved hand for Neal to shake. “We’ve met.”

Neal looked at his face, and wondered how he had somehow missed recognizing Danny even when only his eyes had been visible. “Danny,” he said.

“Neal,” Danny returned.

Rusty made a confused face. 

“See you when we see you,” Danny said, winking at Neal and reaching for a rope hanging from the vent, and within five minutes, they had arrived and left again, without leaving a trace.

Neal left the sculpture with the tiny “NC” initials on the elbow on the pedestal, said a polite goodbye to the housekeeper, and walked out the front door.


End file.
